For more than 20 years my novels were published by the firm of Gerald Duckworth, from whom I received but one advance, let alone royalties on time. It didn't matter; the encouragement I was given and the literary lessons I learned from the inspired team of Colin and Anna Haycraft went far beyond money. And then Colin Haycraft died, and the firm was taken over by the equally inspirational Robin Baird-Smith. I'd been about to seek another publisher, one who would offer me money, and told Baird-Smith that I was willing to stay with him if he granted me a three-book contract, something miraculous I'd heard of in regard to other authors. When he asked me what themes I was considering, from the top of my head I blurted out Scott going to the pole, the sinking of the Titanic and the Crimean war. Baird-Smith then offered me a substantial advance, which shook me; I wasn't used to payments.

My interest in the Titanic was mostly fuelled by an early film entitled History is Made at Night. It starred Charles Boyer, that man with a vein throbbing in his forehead whenever he got emotional. This widely acclaimed American film (a remake was produced more or less at the same time as my novel) never mentioned that the launch of the Titanic had been delayed by a coal strike. Nor did it mention that Captain Smith, bravely seen sinking below the seas, had, in the months preceding the collision, been in command of another ocean liner which had undergone a similar, if less catastrophic, disaster.

Strike over, the newly constructed White Star liner, Titanic, was the first to be given supplies of coal. In those long-gone days, quantities of coal thundering down into the boilers to ignite the engines often started fires, immediately extinguished by hoses. A similar blaze erupted in the depths of the Titanic as she prepared to leave Southampton, in spite of which she was passed as seaworthy and set sail on 10 April 1912. As she left the dock she narrowly avoided colliding with the American liner, New York. The fire continued to burn for two more days, and it's my belief that it was this combination of heat followed by contact with the icy waters of the Atlantic which caused the fatal outcome.

In writing a fictional account of a real-life event it is important to get the historical facts right, even though the characters can be drawn from the imagination. At least, that's what I think. Once I'd learnt about the layout of the ship and the resulting tragedy - there were numerous icebergs, not just one, and all other vessels, aware of this, had dropped anchor - it remained for me to conjure up the men and women on board. The opening two or three thousand words of a book are the most difficult, in that they must be compelling enough to ensure the turning of the remaining pages.

In 1995, a year before my book was published, I was in a taxi circling Manchester Square, London, when I saw a man collapse outside the railings of a house. I was about to draw the driver's attention to the incident when a woman pelted down the steps of the house and cradled him in her arms. The taxi drove on. Later that day, in the character of a young American man about to travel to Southampton to board the Titanic, I wrote the opening pages of my novel:

At half past four on the afternoon of 8th April 1912 - the weather was mild and hyacinths bloomed in window boxes - a stranger chose to die in my arms. "Please," I said, as he pitched forward and clutched me round the waist. We both fell to our knees. Over the road a crocodile of Girl Guides sashayed sing-song through the ornamental gates of the public gardens.

I tried to free myself, but the man was drowning. His face was so close that his two eyes merged into one. I had thought he was drunk, yet his breath smelt sweet. Lay me down, he whispered, and a tear rolled out of that one terrible eye and broke on the swell of his lip. Arching a middle finger and foraging beneath the cuff of my shirt he feather dusted my beating pulse. A sudden gust of wind shook the trees in the gardens and a prolonged sigh echoed along the street. The finger stroke of love, he said, quite distinctly, and soon after, died.

In the rest of the book, involving the characters, I just remembered things that had happened in my own life. There's really no need to make anything up. The ending was easy, told by those in the lifeboats.

In all that ghastly night it was the din of the dying that chilled the most. Then silence fell, and that was the worst sound of all. There was no trace of the Titanic. All that remained was a grey veil of vapour drifting above the water.